The Sea That Knows It All

The evening is quieter, the winds much softer. The rains have taken a break, after having drenched the charming little city filled with its whitewashed walls that now reflect the colours of the setting sun. The cobalt blue doors, windows and picket fences, an artist's dream. As dusk blends into night, the seaside seatings at restaurants all along the coastline whisk up a murmur of conversations. Glasses clink, stoneware being set against marble tables. Candle lights dance in the dark, throwing long shadows of everything that dare to cross their path. Somewhere in the distance, soft jazz music wafts over along with the aroma of pancakes and waffles. Is that a hint of cinnamon I smell? 

I sit gazing into the waves. The ebbs and flows of it. The troughs and the trenches. There's something very soul satisfying about living next to a water body like this. I could spend hours just listening to the waves. How do I even begin to describe it? I rack my brain for words that I can use to describe the sound of the waves. I use up all the consonants and vowels, I mix up definitions, I roll letters around in my mouth, whispering them to see how they feel. I make up words and pronunciations. Trying to imitate the sound. And I still fall short. 

At some innate level, I realize I'm simply working on distracting myself. Anything to keep myself from thinking about the real issue at hand. I give up on trying to describe the sound, and just go back to listening to the sound itself. Looking at the sea. The original. Nature. Inimitable. 

And I watch as wave after wave, the sea continues to just keep wiping the slate clean and start fresh. It doesn't measure. It doesn't over analyze. It does what it needs to do. It doesn't keep debts. It takes what's its, the surf, the molluscs. And it just returns what isn't its. Like the seaweed it has thrown out all along the beach shoreline. Like the plastic, however little that got littered in, back at the shore. There's no revenge. There's no trying to settle score. It simply moves on. Ebbs and flows. Ebbs and flows. Over and over. With all of its mundane and consistency. With the exception of a storm or two every once in a while. Life in a nutshell. 

I feel the texture of the ring on my finger. The soft metal, cool against my skin. And sitting next to the forgiving yet dignified sea, I feel my heart softening, the heaviness lifting, the desire for a showdown evaporating. 

I take a deep breath. It's time. As I exhale, I can feel the burden leaving my body. I slip the ring off my finger and put it into the deep red envelope. The address is already inked in. Perhaps at some level, I always knew. Just like the sea, I cannot keep what isn't mine.